


December 2016

by babybrotherdean



Series: 365 Challenge: 2016 [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 18:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 14,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: Collection of 365 ficlets for the month of December.





	1. Three-Hundred Thirty-Six: Bloody Messiah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a long ride back home after Crowley and Castiel disappear to start tracking Lucifer all over again, and it’s too damn quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a thing for after. Lucifer stuff.

It’s a long ride back home after Crowley and Castiel disappear to start tracking Lucifer all over again, and it’s too damn quiet. More than once, Dean’s tempted to turn on the radio, but every single time he catches the slump of Sam’s shoulders in the corner of his eye, and it reminds him that his brother  _liked_ this guy. Big picture or not, it feels like throwing on some Vince Vincente- even the not-awful third album- would just be rubbing salt into a fresh wound.

Dean makes the drive straight through with a few cups of coffee and an adamant refusal to stop over for the night. He wants to be home right now, and though Sam doesn’t say a word to him for the entire twenty-hour trip, he suspects that he’s not the only one. As much as he wants to drag himself straight to bed, though, he hesitates once they finally roll into the bunker’s garage, engine still running for a few long seconds. He waits until his brother’s looking at him before switching it off, eyes and hands still on the wheel.

Damn, he wishes he was better at this.

“We didn’t lose,” he says eventually. It feels like he’s trying to offer a shitty consolation prize after Sam’s little speech back in LA, but he has to try. “You were the one who said we were there to save people, Sam, and- hell, we did. We saved loads of people. People with shitty taste in music, maybe, but-”

“Dean.” 

Sam sounds exactly as exhausted as Dean feels, and when Dean finally drags his eyes up to look over towards the passenger seat, he looks about a hundred years older than he should. He looks  _defeated_ , and that’s hard to see in the guy who never gives up. Sam’s always the one pushing to find another way, but this- this is new. “Can we just… not do this right now?”

It’s far from what Dean wants to hear, and he looks away again, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. Alright. Alright, he can leave this alone. He can do that. “Right, sure.” He clears his throat a bit, shifts in his seat. “Um… guess I’ll see you, then.”

When he gets out of the car, Sam doesn’t follow right away, but Dean forces himself to keep walking. It’s got him all twisted up inside, leaving his brother alone right now, but- but Sam doesn’t want to talk, so Dean’s going to give him some space. He can do that.

It’s not until the car’s out of sight and he’s about to step out of the garage that he hears, distant and muffled, the opening chords of Bloody Messiah starting from somewhere behind him. He pauses and listens to the first few seconds, then takes a deep breath and keeps walking. Maybe his brother just needs a little time to mourn.

And- hell. Maybe the third album wasn’t awful, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	2. Three-Hundred Thirty-Seven: Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dean,” he hears whispered somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, and Dean throws his arm over his eyes dramatically. “Dean. Dean. Dean-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Babies being soft.

“Dean,” he hears whispered somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, and Dean throws his arm over his eyes dramatically. “Dean. Dean. Dean-”

“M’sleepin’,” Dean mumbles while Sammy crawls up his body and plops down on his chest. “Asleep.”

“Dean.” His brother keeps moving closer, though, until his nose is bumping up into the underside of Dean’s chin, demanding attention. “Dean, I gotta tell you somethin’. I gotta. S’important. Dean.”

Dean considers, for a moment, keeping his eyes shut and pretending to go back to sleep, but Sammy’s close enough to lick him if he refuses to comply, and waking up once like that was one time too many. Dean cracks one eye open and tilts his head a little, trying to peek down towards his brother with the smallest amount of effort he can possibly exert. “What?”

Sammy looks like an excited puppy, big eyes and hands all tucked up under his chin and there might as well be a tail wagging behind him, ‘cause Dean can imagine it without a whole lot of effort. “I love you a whole bunch,” Sammy tells him in all sincerity, and- hell. Dean can’t be upset about waking up for that. “Like- like a lot! A whole lot and a bunch. Like a lot and a bunch combined. That’s how much I love you.”

Dean breathes out a heavy sigh and wraps his arms tight around his little brother, pulling him in close and smiling at the squeak it elicits from Sammy. “Yeah, yeah. C’mon, s’time for sleepin’.”

Apparently satisfied with the delivery of his message, Sammy snuggles right close to him, tucks himself up in Dean’s chest and closes his eyes once more. “Lots an’ lots,” he mumbles, and Dean huffs out softly and buries his nose in soft, chestnut hair. “More n’ anything.”

Dean catches himself smiling, and he’s mostly asleep by the time he replies, soft and muffled as his lips move against Sammy’s hair.

“You, too, buddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	3. Three-Hundred Thirty-Eight: Fixation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fixation_ has never felt like a strong enough word for the way that Dean feels about his little brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wincesty?

_Fixation_ has never felt like a strong enough word for the way that Dean feels about his little brother.

It’s a little bit like obsession, and a little bit like worship. A little bit like kissing the ground where he walks and like using his own body to shield his precious charge from the entirety of the world. It’s something more, and it’s something absolute; something he lives and breathes and  _is_. Something more than fixation.

 _Love_ is closer, he thinks, but that doesn’t feel right, either.

“I’m gonna keep you safe,” he whispers sometimes, when Sam’s asleep. It’s easier to talk to him like this, and it’s less complicated, and it means he doesn’t need to meet his brother’s pretty eyes. “Always. No matter what happens.” 

It’s easier to renew these little promises, too; Sam isn’t the only one relying on him to carry them through. Outside of Sam exists a void and a sort of nothingness that leaves Dean alone and useless and small, and maybe that’s what has him clinging so tightly, so desperate to hold onto this one, special thing with every fibre of his being.

 _Devotion_ isn’t quite it, but he thinks maybe there’s a part of him that recognizes that feeling.

“Forever,” he mumbles one more time, and Sam, as always, does not respond. He’s quiet and asleep and as safe as he can be right now, with monsters and demons out in the world, and Dean intends to keep it that way. “Goodnight.”

Not that he sleeps very well, knowing he’s the only line of defense between his brother and oblivion, but… so it goes.

Perhaps he’s fixated, and perhaps he takes things too far. Maybe Dean needs to give the both of them some breathing room instead of leaving no space and no risk and no privacy, but this is the only thing that feels right. This is the only thing he knows how to do when he relies so desperately on the boy asleep in the other bed.

Fixation, it may be, but he still can’t bring himself to leave it behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	4. Three-Hundred Thirty-Nine: Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blissful ignorance keeps Dean very far away from Stanford for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stanford stuff.

Blissful ignorance keeps Dean very far away from Stanford for a very long time.

As long as he doesn’t visit his brother, Sam’s status is up in the air. He’s Schroedinger’s cat, happy and miserable and every colour in between for as long as Dean doesn’t see it for himself. There’s something about the mystery of it that appeals to him, like maybe if he hopes hard enough, then by the time he actually does work up the nerve to swing by, Sam will beg him to come back, and to leave the college life behind. He’ll miss his family and hunting and whatever else they’ve ever had, and they’ll live together happily ever after.

The thing about blissful ignorance, though, it that it tends to come to a screeching, grinding halt when reality comes knocking.

Dean doesn’t expect the girlfriend. He doesn’t expect the overwhelming success or the way Sam’s face seems to be lit up all the time, perpetually happier than he has ever been with his family. He doesn’t expect the cozy apartment or the part-time barista job, and he doesn’t expect for his little brother to have settled so happily into his shiny new life.

Ignorance has been rudely and abruptly stripped away from Dean, and it leaves him feeling very cold and very lonely and very small. 

He doesn’t end up knocking, because recon has cut him deep enough without putting a voice to the pretty blonde or a smell to the home his brother’s made for himself. He tries to cling to the last shreds of  _maybe he’ll come back_ on the way out of Palo Alto, but there’s a gash where Sam used to sit nestled somewhere in his chest and there’s not a damn thing he can do to fix it.

If only he could close his eyes and pretend. He hasn’t known how to do that for two decades, and he doesn’t think he’ll remember any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	5. Three-Hundred Forty: Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Happy bir’day to you…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad angst things.

_“Happy bir’day to you…”_

Mary can still hear it, clear as anything. The dreamy haze around her fades into irrelevance because her little boy is whisper-singing for her as the mattress dips under his weight, and she has to hide a smile against her pillow as he continues.

Flames lick at the edges of her consciousness, too, but she does her very best to block them out.

_“Happy bir’day to you…_

He’d been three years old, and she had been newly pregnant, and John had been beside her, chuckling softly as Dean crawled into their bed, ultimately flopping down between them and breaking out into a fit of giggles when she’d pulled him close. 

He was so small, back then. Just little enough that she could gather him up in her arms and hold him to her chest, feather-light the way he’d felt since the day he was born, and soft under her fingertips. Excitable and affectionate and  _good_ , untouched by the horrors of her past and a shining beacon of her future.

_“Happy bir’day, to Mommy…”_

Things change, though, and the toddler in her arms is torn away by the smell of burning meat and a scream she doesn’t recognize as her own.

The boys remember her birthday, and they try to pull something together for her. Sam brings her coffee, first thing, all tentative smiles and walking on eggshells, and Dean’s cooking them breakfast when they make it to the kitchen. There’s a store-bought cake in the fridge and they don’t sing to her, but she gets a candle to blow out that Dean lights with trembling fingers. They both watch her like a hawk.

It’s not the same anymore, and it hurts to try to read her little boys into these battle-hardened strangers, but  _God_ , does she try.

Mary doesn’t know how old she’s supposed to call herself, so she doesn’t. It’s a quiet affair that peters off into every other day, and she doesn’t know what else she could have expected.

It doesn’t make the remembering hurt any less.

_“Happy bir’day to you!”_

She clings too hard to her dreams, pretending like the nightmares don’t use it to drag her in deeper. Sometimes, it’s almost worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	6. Three-Hundred Forty-One: Newborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time Sammy is born, John’s just about entirely forgotten just how tiny babies tend to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John soft things.

By the time Sammy is born, John’s just about entirely forgotten just how tiny babies tend to be. The first time he holds his second newborn son, though, it comes rushing back all at once.

Mary’s resting, a tired smile on her face with Dean curled up at her side overflowing with excited whispers, and John doesn’t miss the way his eyes keep wandering towards the baby. He’s already met his brand-new little brother, but he’s already formed what seems like a very deep attachment to him, and it’s impossible to miss how badly he wants to cuddle Sammy again the way they showed him. Still, Mary keeps him occupied, and John is more than grateful; there’s something special about having this quiet moment to himself, and he wants to enjoy it while he can.

Sammy’s eyes are closed, and he’s dozing, and John just watches, cradling the tiny body close to his chest and picking out the features he can recognize. He’s got Mary’s eyes, but John’s nose, and John wonders absently how much he’ll look like his big brother. He’s unbelievably soft to the touch, and John can’t quite stop himself from petting careful fingertips over Sammy’s little tiny hands, tracing out his fingers and the gentle plumpness of his palms. 

He’s perfect. He’s absolutely perfect, just the way Dean was when he was born, and John’s heart swells with affection and joy. He holds his baby boy a little closer and drops a kiss onto his forehead, watching the way it wrinkles up with confusion before smoothing out again as Sammy settles back into his sleep. John makes sure he’s still properly swaddled in his blanket, and finally moves to return him to his mother, lingering close by as their little family gathers around their newest and most fragile little addition.

Sammy is already well-loved, and John feels all kinds of soft watching him sleep. His boys will be happy together, and he and Mary are going to build them the happiest life they can. He’ll make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	7. Three-Hundred Forty-Three: Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s okay,” she tells him, over and over again, trying her very best to get him to meet her eyes. “It was an accident, John, I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pain with John and Mary and PTSD stuff.
> 
> The ficlet for day 342 was uploaded separately as [Real](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8788810). It's also included in this series if you want to check it out.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, over and over again, trying her very best to get him to meet her eyes. “It was an accident, John, I’m fine.”

John chances a look at his wife’s face, and the dark colouring around her cheekbone and eye makes him feel sick.

It was another nightmare. It’s always the nightmares that hit him the worst.

They’re not nightmares so much as they are memories; flashbacks, Mary calls them. Gunfire and the acrid smell of explosives; drawing blood, taking life. The stray bullet that almost killed him; left him lying in the middle of that battlefield wondering if he’d ever make it home to tell his mom that he loved her.

The nightmares are bad, but waking up tends to be worse.

It wasn’t her fault. It never is; none of this has ever been Mary’s fault but she takes the brunt of it and John can’t help but hate himself because of that. She hasn’t done a damn thing wrong, doesn’t for a second deserve to have to deal with his broken head, but she just-

She just wanted to wake him up. That’s all.

He doesn’t remember opening his eyes. The first thing he’d become conscious of was the pain in his knuckles and his heart trying to beat its way straight out of his chest while Mary looked up at him, wide-eyed and scared.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, must register the horror on his face, and John’s throat is too tight to speak. “It was an accident.”

It’s an accident that ends up with Mary bruised by his hand, and with John questioning whether or not he should even be here. Whether he should allow himself to be in the same house with this little family they’ve started to build when he’s so unstable some days that he threatens to tear it apart because of a  _bad dream_.

All he can think about are those times when Dean- tiny, fragile, little Dean, their precious baby boy- has crawled into their bed, first thing in the morning, to wake them up. Christmas or his birthday or Mother’s Day or any day at all when he’s feeling especially affectionate, and-

And John can’t help but wonder how well Dean could take being hit like that. How much of his freckled little face would end up black and blue and swollen if John were to catch him instead of Mary coming up swinging from a dream like that.

Mary’s making breakfast when John reaches the bottom of the stairs with a duffle bag over his shoulder and a steely resolve in his eyes. There’s a question in the way she looks at him, but he doesn’t have the heart to explain and turns towards the door before she can ask.

He doesn’t notice Dean’s presence until he hears the kid’s voice, piping up all soft and curious just before John slips out the front door.

“Momma, wha’ happened to your face?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	8. Three-Hundred Forty-Four: Protective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realistically, Jessica knows that she doesn’t have any place being as protective of her boyfriend as she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Jess soft.

Realistically, Jessica knows that she doesn’t have any place being as protective of her boyfriend as she is.

Sam, as he has proven more than once, is more than capable of taking care of himself. Even if he weren’t as tall as he was, and even if he wasn’t slowly filling out and becoming a little less lanky, there’ve been-  _moments._ Just little things, like his posture and the way he scopes out any new room they enter and how lightly he sleeps- little things that remind her very distinctly of her uncle’s behaviour after serving overseas. Sam doesn’t explain, and she doesn’t ask.

So it’s not… it’s not that she’s worried someone will hurt Sam, physically. It’s not that Jessica thinks he’s anything but ready to put his head down and plough through anything that gets in his way. From what few tidbits of his past she’s managed to wrestle out of him, it’s more than a little obvious that he’s ready and able to do exactly that, but it’s- it’s different. 

As much as Sam is quiet and mysterious and sort of  _dark_ , there’s something past that that Jessica likes to think not a whole lot of people get to see. There’s something softer, something that smoothes his edges and warms his smile; something Jessica can’t really name, but has an irresistible and overwhelming need to protect.

It’s pretty clear to her that Sam’s seen more than his share of life, but there’s a little-boy vulnerability he isn’t very good at hiding from her. There’s something soft and gentle and  _good_ that hasn’t been touched, and every time someone comes near- every time someone threatens that fragile little piece of purity hidden inside someone so quietly damaged-

She can’t help it if she’s a little more aggressive than she strictly needs to be.

Whatever landed Sam in California in the first place, whatever family drama causes him to stare at the phone for hours on end, whatever’s happened in his past that has him waking up sweating and shaking from nightmares too many times to count, and that has him holding her close like he’s scared something horrible is going to happen-

Whatever’s happened in his past, Jessica has taken responsibility for everything that came out from it. She cradles it close and vows to keep it safe, to protect Sam in every way she knows how and to make sure that nothing ever hurts that gentle, soft part of him. 

It’s made it this far already, and she won’t allow it to be damaged now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	9. Three-Hundred Forty-Five: Back Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I will put you back together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FNAF quotes fuck me up.

_I will put you back together._

Dean isn’t sure whether he thinks the words or whispers them into Sam’s skin, but there’s a cold and lifeless body on the bed he leaves behind him and a lifelong purpose that he can’t quite put to rest.

He remembers what happened to his father, of course. To those people back in Mississippi, foolish and desperate and ambitious enough not to think about the consequences of their own actions farther down the line. He knows exactly what comes from these sorts of deals because he’s seen it first-hand and felt its horrors in a terribly personal sense.

None of it is enough to keep him away from the crossroads, though. Ten years, five years, one; none of it is worth living with his brother dead in the ground, and there’s not a day that’s gone by since their chance at normal lives burned to ash that Dean’s had any other reason for being besides  _Sam_.

There’s nothing left for him here, and his only option is to continue as he always has: to take care of his baby brother in every way he knows how.

_That’s my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?_

The taste of sulphur lingers on his lips for days afterwards, but it’s worth every second that Sam’s heart continues to beat. There’s not a damn thing he won’t put on the line to protect that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	10. Three-Hundred Forty-Six: Impiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean learns the word _impiety_ when he’s eleven years old and staying in Blue Earth, Minnesota.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a thing with boys.

Dean learns the word  _impiety_ when he’s eleven years old and staying in Blue Earth, Minnesota. 

He isn’t supposed to be listening, and should probably feel more guilty than he does about eavesdropping on a pastor in a church, but when it comes to his little brother, he can’t really help himself. He knows that Sammy and Pastor Jim have a special relationship, and as hard as he tries not to admit it to himself, it’s always made Dean a little bit jealous. He just wants to know what they talk about; to know what their family friend offers Sam that he can’t.

Maybe the answer should’ve been obvious from the start.

“He doesn’t like that stuff.” Sam’s speaking, the two of them sitting at one of the pews in Jim’s church while Dean listens from a doorway to the side. It’s hard to discern his brother’s apparently unhappy mumbling, but he manages alright by holding his breath. “He just… he gets mad if I ask ‘bout angels and stuff.”

For a moment, Dean can’t be sure whether Sam’s talking about him or their father, but it clears up as he continues. “He didn’t talk to me for a whole week when I asked if Mom was in Heaven.” 

Dean remembers that week with a lot of confused anger and hurt. Even now, just thinking about it gets him all twisted up inside, but there’s guilt there, too- Sam’s just a kid. He doesn’t get why it’s so painful to talk about her, and Dean knows he was kind of a jerk.

Still, it starts to fill in some blanks about why his brother’s chosen to talk to Jim.

There’s some shuffling that makes it seem like maybe they’re hugging, and Dean tries not to shift too much in place. He’s the one who’s supposed to take care of Sam, and that means hugging him better when he’s sad. He’s sneaking around here, and can’t risk revealing himself in case he gets in trouble.

“Sam, your brother… he may just have different beliefs than you do,” Jim explains after a quiet moment. “Or he may choose not to believe. Some people just get hurt too much by the world to want to even try.”

Sam makes a pained sound at that and Dean twitches in place. “But- but isn’t it bad if you don’t?”

Jim laughs at that, but in the way he does that’s- that’s just soft. It doesn’t sound like he’s making fun. “Impiety doesn’t hurt people,” he says gently. “It’s just… different. I promise that no matter what Dean believes or doesn’t believe, he still loves you. Okay?”

Sam’s quiet for a long moment after that, but then Dean hears the unmistakable slap of bare feet on the wooden floor. “Okay,” Sam says, just as Dean’s starting to carefully make his escape. “Thanks, Pastor Jim.”

Dean doesn’t hear the rest of the exchange, but he makes it back to their shared room just in time to be sitting on his bed when Sam returns, looking just distressed enough that it’s only natural for Dean to open up his arms in invitation. He’s got a lapful of little brother a moment later, and a feeling of relief starts to swell in his chest.

“Dean,” Sam mumbles into his chest. “I love you lots and- and you love me, right? No matter what?”

Dean holds him a little tighter and pushes away the guilt that lingers from before. Maybe he can be a little easier on Sam’s religious fixation from here on out. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “’Course. No matter what.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	11. Three-Hundred Forty-Seven: Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can’t help but groan as he buries his face in the pillow, taking in another huge lungful before sighing it out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean appreciates the little things.

Dean can’t help but groan as he buries his face in the pillow, taking in another huge lungful before sighing it out again. He isn’t bothered by the sound of Sam rolling his eyes or grinning, entirely content to stay right here, completely enveloped in…

“What is that?” Dean mumbles, mostly to himself. “Spring fresh? Cool breeze?”

“Clean laundry?” Sam suggests dryly, and finally Dean feels the mattress dip as his brother joins him in bed. “Do you two need a moment alone?”

Dean considers that much more seriously than he’s sure he’s supposed to. “I guess you can stay, too.”

Sam snorts that time before he’s settling in beside Dean, arms winding around his middle and pulling him close. Dean doesn’t let it interrupt his aroma journey, just finding a cool, unsniffed part of the sheets while Sam gets himself comfortable. “Whatever does it for you, man.”

That time, Dean just elects to ignore him. It’s one of the subtle perks to having their own home now; clean sheets. Gone are the days of mysterious stains and the ever-lingering smell of cigarettes. Instead, all he gets is fabric softener, lovingly selected by the colours on the bottle because he’s never really had a reason to care about his laundry before.

So yeah, maybe he’s a little too enthusiastic about the smell of freshly-washed sheets. After a lifetime without them, though, they’re just one of many little novelties that come with domesticity, and Dean has long since decided life is too short not to appreciate the little things.

It’s worth his brother’s teasing, especially when he still gets to snuggle back against Sam while he falls asleep. It always seems to be the little things that make the picture a whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	12. Three-Hundred Forty-Eight: Food Network

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s getting late, and Sam’s getting sleepy, and he goes hunting around the bunker for his brother to see if he can coerce Dean to crawl into bed with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is canon. I'll fight.

It’s getting late, and Sam’s getting sleepy, and he goes hunting around the bunker for his brother to see if he can coerce Dean to crawl into bed with him. It’s always easier to fall asleep with him close by, and it’s no fun at all to have to stare up at the ceiling for a while until Dean wanders in on his own.

The kitchen is a bust, but the TV room is Sam’s next stop, and that’s where he finds his brother- sprawled out on the couch, settled deep enough into the cushions that he seems to be in the process of fusing with them, and staring very intently at the TV.

He’s watching the Food Network.

Sam doesn’t hide his smile, moving around to the front side of the couch and claiming the far end of it, glancing between his brother and the TV screen a couple times before speaking. “Having fun?”

Dean grunts in his general direction and Sam tries not to laugh. “What is it this time?”

“Kid’s Baking Championship,” Dean replies without tearing his eyes away from the TV. “They’re doing a winter theme.”

“Huh.” Sam nods thoughtfully and glances at the screen again. It’s a flurry of activity between the kids and the judges, with a whole lot of kitchen lingo thrown in that’s only vaguely familiar. “You picked a favourite?”

Dean does look at him that time, as if Sam’s just asked him the colour of the sky or how he feels about cheeseburgers. “Lily. She’s a tiny little baking powerhouse, and the sweetest kid here.”

Sounds like she fits the bill of Dean’s usual favourites then. He’s never liked the cocky ones. Sam nods again and settles down in place, halfway tuning into the show and mostly too tired to pay attention. Dean’s absorbed in his own little world again, mumbling comments about undercooked dough and time limits, and it’s… familiar. It’s cozy.

Eventually, Sam’s eyes don’t want to stay open anymore, so he decides that his bed is too far away and slowly lays himself down right here, instead. He gets himself good and comfortable with his head in his brother’s lap, and by the time he closes his eyes, Dean’s fingers are in his hair, probably a nervous habit more than anything else. He’s just… a little bit invested in these shows.

“Are you kidding me?” he growls, tugging gently at Sam’s hair in a way that just nudges him closer to sleep. “Who care what she calls it? Brownie, blondie, it’s fucking delicious, Susan. That’s what matters here.”

Sam smiles into Dean’s stomach and drifts off to a soft running commentary about baking and children and his opinions on the quality of the judges. It’s more soothing than it has any right to be, and he’s perfectly content with that for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	13. Three-Hundred Forty-Nine: Frozen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dude, c’mon,” Sam complains as Dean more or less physically drags him out of the motel. “I just got out of the shower. We can’t be five minutes late this morning?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly brothers and frozen hair.

“Dude, c’mon,” Sam complains as Dean more or less physically drags him out of the motel. “I just got out of the shower. We can’t be five minutes late this morning?”

“To meet the coroner?” Dean asks, full of skepticism when he glances back at his brother. Sam looks like an unhappy drowned kitten, wet hair flattened down and plastered to his cheeks and neck. Alright, so maybe he’s shivering a little in his jacket, and maybe it’s starting to snow, but- hell, they’re in a hurry. “He was already looking at us funny when we met with him yesterday. Next thing you, he thinks we’re just- just body-snatchers or something. Trying to snatch bodies.”

Sam squints at him a little and Dean figures it’s early enough in the morning that it’s okay if his banter isn’t quite up to par yet. “Fine, just- let’s get to the car already.”

Dean decides that Sam’s capable of walking on his own and takes the lead on the way to the Impala, only peeking back towards him once or twice to make sure he’s still following along. He is, but he’s… messing with his hair, it looks like. Picking at it or something instead of his usual one-sweep ‘do, and it just gets Dean more curious and vaguely concerned by the time they actually climb into the car.

“You growing lice?” he asks bluntly once the doors close behind them, and Sam gives him an unimpressed look. “What?”

“My hair is frozen,” Sam grumbles in return, going back to picking at it, and sure enough- if Dean squints, he can see the little ice crystals clinging to the wet strands. “It froze.”

Dean just stares for a few seconds before laughing, turning back towards the wheel so he can start up the car and thaw the poor kid free. “The hazards of not getting the first shower, Sammy. Gotta be quick around here.”

That earns him an elbow to the ribs, but he’s still snickering as he gets the engine going and cranks up the heat. Sam doesn’t stop fussing with his hair the entire drive, and by the time they get to the hospital it’s… mostly better.

Sam gets up an entire hour early the next morning to grab the first shower, and Dean doesn’t stop grinning at him once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	14. Three-Hundred Fifty: Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s creeping towards the late afternoon when Dean climbs up onto the couch one more time, stretching up on his tip-toes to get a good view out the bay window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby Dean.

It’s creeping towards the late afternoon when Dean climbs up onto the couch one more time, stretching up on his tip-toes to get a good view out the bay window. It’s just as messy as it was last time he looked, the entire street blanketed in white while the snow continues to fall, the wind blowing tight flurries around the bare tree in their front yard. The whole world is quiet today, like it forgot how to make any sounds in the midst of the cold, and Dean frowns, biting his lip and climbing a little higher on his perch.

“How’s it look?” Momma’s voice is soft as she comes up behind him, one hand coming up to steady him before he even realizes he’s starting to slip. “Any news?”

“It’s still all snowy,” Dean mumbles, shifting around anxiously. Even inside, he’s all bundled up, and the hood of his Batman pullover slips down off his head as he leans closer to the window. “What if he gets lost? It’s gonna be dark.”

“He knows the way home, baby.” He gets a firm kiss on the side of his head, but it doesn’t do anything to calm him down. “Just have some faith, okay? He’s probably just driving slower than usual to be safe.”

That doesn’t sound so bad, but Dean’s still hesitant in his nod. “‘Kay,” he mumbles, and his momma gives him another small kiss before moving away. Dean keeps his eyes on the outside, scanning for any change in the scenery or any hint of headlights through the snow.

He’s pretty sure it’s been a million years by the time he sees something, but the crunching of snow under tires is unmistakable, and he only gets more excited at the sight of the sleek, black car that he knows belongs to his dad.

Dean’s at the door before the car’s even parked, stretching up on his tip-toes to open it up and only regretting it a little bit when he’s met with a gust of cold air and snow that’s swept into the house by the wind. He shivers and clings to the doorframe, hearing his momma call his name in question from the other room as his dad gets out of the car and grins at him, heading right over and opening up his arms to scoop Dean up off his feet as soon as he’s close enough.

“Daddy, you came back!” Dean cheers, ignoring all the snow and the chilly leather jacket his dad’s got on. He already feels better, and a little silly for getting so worried. His dad’s invincible. No way some dumb snow would ever hurt him.

His dad laughs and hugs him close, shifting Dean to one arm just in time to wrap the other one around his wife, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “'Course I did. Why wouldn’t I, buddy?”

There isn’t a single good answer that comes to Dean’s mind, so he just reaches up and hugs his dad as tight as he can, stealing away his warmth as the front door closes. His dad is home, and he’s safe, and Dean’s while family is here now, cozy and happy. He never should’ve doubted anything in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	15. Three-Hundred Fifty-One: Tainted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seconds immediately _after_ are all very blurry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vampire!Dean stuff.

The seconds immediately  _after_  are all very blurry.

They slip-side together into a slur of his Dean’s own heartbeat, hummingbird-quick and desperate against the inside of his ribcage like it’s trying its very best to escape from his tainted body. There’s a ringing in his ears, too, an overwhelming wave of silence that makes it hard to breathe and harder to think.

He’s alone here. There’s- there’s an impression on the backs of his eyelids, the only thing he can see right now, of someone who- someone who should’ve helped him. Someone who’s supposed to care, but maybe-?

Maybe he isn’t worth saving anymore.

Pinpricks of sound are trying to break through the haze in his mind, and Dean does his very best to fight it because with them come the nauseating copper taste in his mouth, something dirty and foreign and bad. Something- something evil, something that’s already in his body, now, something he can feel at the back of his throat, thick and slimy in a way that blood shouldn’t be, and maybe if he throws up…

No. No; it’s too late for him. He can feel the infection starting to spread like a disease in his veins and it’s a little like dying and Dean tries to cling to that part. Maybe if he embraces it, then he won’t survive he process and his brother won’t-

Thinking about Sam makes him feel worse and he can’t help the soft, pained moan that slips past his lips.

“Sammy,” he mumbles, and maybe it summons him or maybe he’s already there because fingertips brush over the sticky-wet spot on Dean’s chin, up towards his lips, and he flinches so violently he cracks his head against the brick wall at his back.

Dean is dying, and there’s something horrible inside of him, and Sam is- Sam is  _wrong._

He quietly prays that he doesn’t survive the night as the body that no longer feels like his own tries to stand. It would be better for everyone if this thing in his bloodstream took him down for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	16. Three-Hundred Fifty-Two: Real or Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It can be like a game,” Dean had said, and even in hindsight, it sounds silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the "real or not real" thing from Mockingjay. Just... Sam.
> 
> I could've sworn I uploaded this separately, but I can't find it for the life of me, so... sorry if I'm doubling up?

“It can be like a game,” Dean had said, and even in hindsight, it sounds silly. There’s nothing fun about the ever-warping line between Sam’s reality and the hallucinations brought on by the myriad of traumatic memories that dominate his headspace; it’s just an extension of his time in Hell, brought up topside for his continued enjoyment. 

But- but Dean’s serious, as much as he tries to hide it behind a half-smile that fails to hide the fear and desperation he’s starting to let slip, and Sam’s open to pretty much anything that’ll ease this suffering.

That’s how it starts, too- like a game.

“Desk lamp,” is the first thing he says, throwing a sideways glance at the ugly old thing surrounded by piles of books in Bobby’s study. Sam looks back towards his brother and he’s more than a little surprised to find Dean looking- uncertain. Tentative. He sorely wants this to work, the same intensity from that night in the warehouse-  _stone number one_ , he’d said- clear in his eyes. “Real or not real?”

“Real,” Dean says, another small smile on his face. “See? It’s easy. Just… when you’re not sure about stuff, you ask. Even if it’s dumb stuff, like- like a really weird hairdo.”

Sam rolls his eyes and Dean’s smile turns a little more genuine and that’s the end of it for the time being. Sam almost forgets all about their little game until four days later when they’ve been left alone in a morgue to inspect a body for themselves, and when Sam pulls back the sheet-

“Maggots,” he says, low and a little weak. He tries to fight off his nausea, but can’t tear his eyes away from their squirming little bodies, festering in a gory, open wound that spans most of the corpse’s stomach. “Real or not real?”

It takes Dean a moment to respond, and Sam can’t stop staring. “Not real,” comes the soft reply, and then Dean’s snapping his fingers, drawing Sam’s attention up and away. “Hey. You good?”

When Sam looks back at the body, he just sees smooth, greying skin, and manages a relieved exhale.

“Yeah. M’good.”

As time goes on and the hallucinations come and go, so does their game. After the first time, Dean never hesitates to answer him, forever the anchor that keeps Sam mostly tied to reality. Lucifer tries to distract him, sometimes, to make him forget- but one look at his brother, and one question, and the devil is fading into the background, just static he’s slowly learning to tune out.

Years pass, Lucifer and the rest of his hallucinations are taken away, and the angels are falling from the sky. Sam doesn’t think he’s going to make it much farther than this.

Dean’s sort of beautiful in this light, though. A million falling stars and he looks terrified, but Sam- Sam feels safe. He feels protected like this in his brother’s arms, even as the heavy magic from the completed trials trickles through his veins, purification by fire that’s burning him from the inside out. Didn’t even finish the damn job, but- but Dean’s here. Dean’s here to take care of him, now, even though it feels like he won’t have that job for very much longer.

“Dean?” he asks softly, eyes caught at the bolt of his brother’s jaw until they meet clear green ones. “I’m- m’dying.” Wets his lips and breathes out slow. “Real or not real?”

Dean’s arms tighten around him and Sam feels like a little kid again. Like his big brother is invincible and like monsters aren’t real. Nothing’s real, he thinks, except for the two of them, curled together against the only real home they’ve ever had and watching the world fall apart.

“Not real,” Dean breathes back, and his eyes turn skyward once more. “Not real, Sammy.”

Sam closes his eyes and feels the weakening rhythm of his own heartbeat, tripping and stumbling towards an ever-nearing conclusion. 

All the times they’ve played this game, Dean has never been wrong. 

Sam supposes that there’s a first time for everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	17. Three-Hundred Fifty-Three: Uniform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “C’mon, the socks were a little goofy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam and his soccer thing. Dean likes it.

“C’mon, the socks were a little goofy.”

Dean’s grinning as he looks at his brother, revelling in the blush that Sam tries to hide by turning his face into the pillow. “They were not,” he huffs. “Would’ve looked weirder if it was just the shin guards.”

“Debatable.” Dean considers it as he squirms closer, right up until he can peek past the hair that’s hiding Sam’s face and smile at him properly. “The shorts were cute, though.”

“The shorts were tiny.”

“I know.”

The tips of Sam’s ears are going red now, too, and Dean’s having the time of his life. It’s been years since he got to watch Sam play soccer- decades- but the memories are good ones, from a time distinctly  _before_ everything else. “The socks were kinda cute, too, I guess. When they weren’t all grass-stained.”

Sam huffs at him for that, but doesn’t fight it when Dean snakes his arms around him and hauls him in close. He seems more than happy to bury his face in Dean’s neck, in fact, and Dean smiles again. “Granted, they were grass-stained more often than not…”

“That’s ‘cause of the grass, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes and rests his chin on Sam’s head. “I know that, asshat.”

They fall quiet for a few seconds, just lying together peacefully. They should be going to sleep any time now, but catching a glimpse of a few kids kicking a ball around on their way back home yesterday had triggered some deeply-buried nostalgia, and Dean’s more than happy to let it linger.

“Y’know… you’ve got the legs now to really make those shorts work. Not to mention the a-”

“Shut up.”

Dean’s left snickering while Sam knocks his head up against the bottom of his jaw to keep him quiet. “We could start up a hunter’s house league. I bet that’d fly real far.”

“Go to sleep, Dean.”

Dean just hugs Sam tighter and does exactly that, his smile still lingering at the corners of his lips as he drifts off to images of his little brother in an old soccer uniform, tiny shorts and socks and all. The kid was one hell of a striker, and maybe Dean got a little more than the excitement of organized sport out of watching his games.

He wonders absently how much a uniform would cost to fit Sam now, and how many blowjobs he’d have to offer to get him to put it on. No harm in trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	18. Three-Hundred Fifty-Four: Kiss it better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shh, hey, hey,” Dean says, real soft while he pulls his little brother up into his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angsty brothers. Pain.

“Shh, hey, hey,” Dean says, real soft while he pulls his little brother up into his lap. The pavement is freezing under his butt, and there are snowflakes starting to make their home among his hair, but he knows they’re not going anywhere until he fixes this. “C’mon, Sammy, don’t cry. You’re okay, buddy.”

Sammy is five years old and he’s just slipped on the ice in the parking lot, landing hard on the palms of his hands and leaving them scraped and raw. He’s breathing in little hitches and gasps and curling in tight on himself, trembling while tears well up in his eyes, and Dean won’t have it.

“Here, lemme see.” He takes a skinny little-boy wrist in his fingers and pulls it close for inspection, brushing his thumb butterfly-soft over the pad of Sammy’s hand and clicking his tongue gently. “Aw, see, it’s not even that bad. S’not even that bad, okay? M’gonna make it all better, Sammy.”

Dean leans in until he can press a barely-there kiss right into the middle of Sammy’s palm, peeking up at his brother to meet watery eyes and see what response he gets. Sammy sniffles and doesn’t flinch and he looks a little tentative, so Dean continues. “See, s’all better. I kissed it better, yeah?”

Sammy catches a rose-petal lip between his teeth and slowly offers Dean his other hand. Dean gives him a big, encouraging smile in return and repeats himself, letting this kiss linger a couple seconds longer ‘cause he likes the way it makes Sammy giggle when his lips tickle his brother’s hand.

“See?” Dean asks him in a puff of white air. “Not bad, right? You’re all better now.”

Sammy smiles through the remains of his tears and Dean gets an armful of baby brother, making him laugh while he hugs back just as tight. “C’mon, s’cold out here.”

They go inside, and Dean kisses Sammy’s hands better once more time that night before they go to bed.

///

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sam. Sam! Hey! Hey, hey. Come here. Let me look at you.”

Dean’s breath is puffing out cold again while his brother slumps into his arms, but Sam doesn’t respond this time and everything feels like it’s moving too slowly.

“Hey, look at me. It’s not even that bad.” He sounds desperate even to his own ears, and there’s no mistaking the sticky-warm feeling of blood on his hand, but- but. “It’s not even that bad, all right?”

Dean keeps whispering to his brother, keeps holding him upright, keeps trying to elicit some sort of response- anything but the feeling of deadweight against him and a failing heartbeat. Sam’s eyelids are drooping and he’s not breathing anymore, doesn’t even- doesn’t even  _look_ at Dean when Dean pushes his clean hand through his brother’s hair, shaky and desperate. Doesn’t make a damn sound when Dean presses his lips to Sam’s forehead like some last-ditch attempt at the miracles he used to work when they were little.

There’s no word to describe the sound that slips past Dean’s lips when his little brother’s heart gives out and he’s left clutching desperately at a dead body.

This is the sort of hurt that he can’t kiss better, except-

Except for beautiful girls with red eyes who will give him anything and everything in exchange for that single kiss.

They aren’t as soft as Sam is, but they do the job just the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	19. Three-Hundred Fifty-Five: Shoulders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dean is three years old, his very favourite place to sit is astride his daddy’s shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random small Dean.

When Dean is three years old, his very favourite place to sit is astride his daddy’s shoulders.

He can see the whole world from up there, ‘cause Daddy’s the biggest and strongest person ever. He’ll wrap his arms tight around Daddy’s head to stay in place, and sit up as tall as he can, and keep a lookout around them for anything exciting happening nearby.

It’s where he feels safest when they all go out as a family, up above everyone else and far away from other people. Sometimes he wants to come down ‘cause they pass a doggy, and sometimes he wants to his Momma, too, but mostly he stays right there, watching everything go by from his perch, a comfortable distance away.

“Just like a cat,” his momma teases him. “Want to keep an eye on everyone, huh, baby?” She gives his foot a gentle squeeze and he beams at her, hugging Daddy tighter.

He can see everyone and everything from up here, and he always knows that his family is close. Up here, above the world, Dean knows for sure that he’s safe. Up here, he’s completely untouchable.

It never occurs to him that one day, when Daddy sets him down on his own two feet, he’ll never get picked up like that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	20. Three-Hundred Fifty-Six: Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very first thing that Elise learns about Dean Winchester is that there’s no way he’s the twenty-two-year-old that his ID proclaims him to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little outsider POV thing.

The very first thing that Elise learns about Dean Winchester is that there’s no way he’s the twenty-two-year-old that his ID proclaims him to be. She pegs him for eighteen,  _maybe_ , but he’s got a winning smile and an aura of little-boy loneliness that makes it very hard to send him away.

The second thing she learns is that she isn’t the first. It’s not that he tells her, and it’s not even how good he is once they make it back to her apartment; she just knows beyond all deniability that any woman with working eyes and a scrap of maternal instinct would’ve scooped him up immediately on sight.

She doesn’t have a name for the feeling he causes. It’s a strange combination of something protective and something that wants to  _give;_  she doesn’t need a psych degree to see the poorly-disguised hurt in Dean’s eyes, no matter how hard he tries to keep it behind bold flirtation and just enough shy suggestion to keep her heart fluttering. He’s damn good at what he does, and Elise can only imagine how many women he’s attracted on the basis of his looks alone, but there’s something deeper at play here that pulls directly at her heartstrings and she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do about it.

He falls asleep, after, and she takes the opportunity to just look at him a while. Long eyelashes and freckles are where her eyes go first, but the scars start to stand out shortly after, and she catches herself just before reaching out to touch. There are a thousand quiet stories carved out on his skin and she wants to understand. She wants- she wants…

She wants to keep him safe.

It’s such a foreign feeling after years of hookups that only end in regret, and it’s one that Elise doesn’t know how to handle. She makes the mistake of closing her eyes, and when she wakes up- when she wakes up again, Dean is gone, not a trace of him left except the rumpled covers on her bed and the used condom in the trash. She almost gets to convincing herself that it never happened, after a while- that Dean was some bizarre figment of her imagination, born of a need to be needed and the small part of her that loves a good tragedy.

She’s left wondering for a very long time. Some mysteries just aren’t meant to be solved, and Dean- Dean might be the biggest question mark she’s ever encountered. Sometimes she tries to puzzle it out, tries to track him down. Searches “Winchester” in every database she can get her hands on and comes up blank. Sometimes she asks her friends, asks her coworkers, asks the other people who were at the bar the night she met him. Sometimes she wants to find him, to demand that he fill in the blanks he’s left behind, to get the answers that might not even exist.

Some days, though- some days, she just wonders if he’s okay. Those days are the hardest of them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	21. Three-Hundred Fifty-Seven: Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary spends the entire day getting the house ready for the holidays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary and stuff.

Mary spends the entire day getting the house ready for the holidays. There are knick-knacks to put out, tinsel to drape, stockings to hang- and most important of all, it’s the first year since her and John settled down that they’ve been able to get themselves a real, proper Christmas tree.

John comes home with it just a little after noon, and it’s a bit of a mission to get it standing, but their living room smells fresh and clean and it’s gorgeous, even more so once she starts to string the lights.

Little Dean, though, seated on the couch with a little Santa hat through all her decorating process and barely two whole years old, watches it all with a touch of suspicion.

“Spiky,” he huffs after a little while of brooding silence, and Mary glances towards him, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Spiky green.”

“Tree,” she tells him, making sure all the lights are staying in place before turning and heading over to Dean. She scoops him up before he has a chance to demand it, smiling when he snuggles close. “It’s a Christmas tree, baby. Smells nice, right?”

Dean peeks up from her shoulder only to lean in the general direction of the tree and give it a tentative sniff, only pausing to bat the little pom-pom on his hat out of his way. “Smells.”

Mary laughs and bounces him higher in her arms, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Here, watch this.” Stepping towards the plug for the lights, she reaches out with one foot and gently steps on the button to turn them on, smiling at Dean’s little gasp when they flicker to life. “See?”

It takes him a moment to respond, and then he’s reaching out, little fingers curling gently as he touches the closest branches. “Pretty,” he whispers in wonder before looking up to her again. “Christmas? S'pretty lights.”

“Christmas.” Mary smiles and kisses his forehead, smiling softly to herself as she turns her attention back to their little tree. She’s not quite finished- there’s a little box full of ornaments to hang- but there’s no harm in taking a moment to admire the view. “Prettiest holiday of them all.”

Dean smiles big and happy, curling close to her chest again and settling down to watch the lights. They stay like that until John returns with an armful of wood to start a fire, and they all pitch in to finish the job.

Pretty as it gets, she thinks, and it’s nice to know she isn’t the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	22. Three-Hundred Fifty-Eight: Shortbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After hours of avoiding the kitchen upon Dean’s request- hours of banging pots and pans, the distant sound of Dean humming and sometimes cursing, and an ever-alluring smell of something being baked- Sam’s finally called back in, not missing the hint of anxiety in his brother’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baking Dean is best Dean.

After hours of avoiding the kitchen upon Dean’s request- hours of banging pots and pans, the distant sound of Dean humming and sometimes cursing, and an ever-alluring smell of something being baked- Sam’s finally called back in, not missing the hint of anxiety in his brother’s voice. Sam eyes but doesn’t say a word about the veritable disaster zone that the counters have become- Dean’s the one who’s so meticulous about keeping them clean, anyways- and just heads straight over to Dean, who’s hovering by the table, shifting his weight back and forth.

“I know they’re not pretty,” Dean says before Sam can even open his mouth, so he stays quiet and lets his brother speak. “They- the batter just didn’t wanna keep its shape, and the icing was being a little bitch and didn’t get as smooth as it was s'posed to, and… actually, forget it, just get outta here-”

“Hey.” Sam shuts him up by reaching out and catching one of Dean’s hands in his own, unbothered by the globs of icing that cling to his fingers. “Can I see?”

He’s met with silence at first, but then Dean gives him a gentle tug forward so he can approach the table. A couple baking trays rest on its surface, each of them crammed to capacity with-

“Shortbread cookies,” Dean tells him nervously. “Um- they’re supposed to be festive, right? ‘Tis the season or… whatever.”

They’re iced, too, as mentioned- even from this distance, Sam catches a whiff of peppermint. The cookies are cut into haphazard little shapes, too, mostly little snowflakes and Christmas trees with what appear to be a couple mangled reindeer mixed into the bunch. The icing is a bit messy, and Sam can hear the words Dean’s going to say- hear the self-deprecating explanations on the tip of his tongue- so he just holds tight onto his brother’s hand, using his free one to reach down and fish one little snowflake from the bunch.

Dean’s dead-silent when Sam lifts the cookie to his mouth and takes a slow bite.

The peppermint comes through strong, but it’s not overwhelming, settling comfortably alongside what Sam guesses is a cream cheese frosting. It’s just cool enough to draw his attention without distracting from the cookie itself, crunchy when he bites into it and delightfully chewy when he keeps going. The pleased hum he breathed out is entirely unintentional, but Dean’s hand tightens around his.

“Dude,” Sam says sincerely as soon as he’s swallowed, still holding the rest of his cookie. “These are awesome.”

Dean goes a little pink high in his cheeks at the same time he ducks his head, trying to clear his throat. “C'mon,” he mumbles, but Sam’s not having any of that, so he puts down the cookie so he’s got a feee hand to grasp Dean’s chin, turning his head up and catching his lips in a kiss.

Sam opens his mouth right away for the express purpose of sharing the flavours with his brother, and Dean doesn’t take long to respond, going soft and pliant against him as they kiss. He’s giving a soft little sigh of content by the time Sam breaks it, and Sm'a left smiling, resting their foreheads together. “See?”

Dean stays quiet for a few seconds, but he doesn’t pull away, and Sam catches his brother licking his lips. “Thanks, Sammy,” he murmurs, and they stand together in comfortable silence for a few more seconds. “I might need another taste, though. Just to be sure.”

Sam laughs right into the second kiss, not the least bit shy about grinning against his brother’s mouth. Maybe he’ll have to get Dean baking more often. Seems that it’s more than worth a bit of mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	23. Three-Hundred Fifty-Nine: Santa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can hear them whispering before they even start climbing down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny boys and Christmas.

John can hear them whispering before they even start climbing down the stairs.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean’s insisting in a hushed voice. “We gotta be real quiet, ‘kay?”

“Real quiet,” Sammy whispers back, and John can’t hide his smile.

The boys have been talking about sneaking out on Christmas Eve once their parents are asleep for weeks now, in order to see and possibly capture Santa Claus- no one ever said those boys were anything but ambitious- and for as hard as they try to keep it a secret, they’re not terribly good at it. John and Mary have been crafting their own plans for just as long, and now that it’s finally showtime… well, John would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited.

The fake beard itches a little, but he can live with it.

The stairs creak faintly as the boys start to climb down, and John carefully keeps his back to them, focusing on his work under the tree. He’s got an actual sack full of gifts, plus some empty boxes to make it look bigger, and he’s carefully arranging the ones addressed to Sammy and Dean underneath their tree. He keeps his attention focused on their footsteps, and when he hears a matching pair of gasps, he just smiles again.

There’s some shuffling after that, and John pretends not to hear it, and doesn’t react to the two of them starting to sneak up on him. Instead, he starts humming “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” and goes about his business.

When a butterfly net comes down over his head and just about knocks his hat askew, he gives an appropriately surprised little huff and drops the present he’s holding, peeking over his shoulder to see a pair of triumphant little boys in footie pyjamas.

“Santa!” Sammy gasps, covering his mouth with both his hands a moment after. They’re only illuminated by the Christmas tree’s lights, but John isn’t surprised to see that Dean’s the one holding the net while both of them watch him with big eyes. “You- you’re Santa!”

Dean recovers a little faster than his brother, letting go of the net’s handle with one hand to pull Sammy close to his side. Always the protective one, even at just six years old. “We got him, Sammy,” he whispers, then turns his attention to John again. “We caught you!”

John chuckles softly and lets his voice go a little lower when he speaks. The last thing he wants to do is give away the secret. “You did. I should’ve been ready, knowing you two are so smart.”

Dean absolutely beams at him, and Sammy still looks star-struck, taking a little half-step forward until he can reach out and touch the soft, velveteen fabric of the red suit John’s wearing. It’s bits and pieces, some of it bought, some of it assembled by Mary, but all of it coming together for this moment with the boys.

“I’m Dean,” Dean tells him, matter-of-fact. “An’ this is Sammy. We’ve been real good this year, Mister Santa!”

“Real good!” Sammy echoes, eyes getting even bigger if at all possible. “The bestest-best!”

“And we gotta be on the nice list!” Dean looks up at him imploringly, clutching his little brother to his side and refusing to let go of the little net. “Are we? Were we good ‘nuff?”

John laughs again and doesn’t hesitate to nod, waving one hand towards the little stack of presents he’s been building for them. “I know who you boys are,” he promises. “Sam and Dean Winchester, and you’ve both been very good. I hear your parents are very proud of you.”

Dean’s eyes go big and round at that. “Really?” he breathes out.

“Really.” John smiles, overcome with a wave of affection for his boys. “You’re both on the nice list, and I bet you’ll like what I’ve got here for you… but it needs to wait until Christmas morning. Don’t want to leave your mom and dad out of the fun, do you?”

“No! They gotta help!” Sammy insists, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “An’ they gotta get their presents, too!”

“Exactly.” One more nod, and John glances towards his sack, now empty of all the presents meant for the boys. “Well… I’ve still got lots of other boys and girls to visit tonight. We don’t want them to go without their presents.”

That must resonate with them, because Dean’s quick to lift the butterfly net off his head after he says it. John smiles and fixes his hat before turning back to them, slowly taking a knee. “Now what say you boys go back to bed?” he says. “And in the morning, you can tell your parents all about this. and have a merry Christmas together as a family.”

He doesn’t expect it when Sammy comes forward to give him a tight hug, but it’s not surprising when Dean immediately joins in. “Thanks, Santa,” Sammy mumbles into his shoulder, and John wraps his arms tight around them both to hug them back. “You’re the bestest.”

They pull away, and John smiles at them once more. “You two keep being good,” he says softly. “Now go on back to bed. Sweet dreams.”

The boys only linger for another few seconds before Dean’s herding his little brother back towards the stairs, and they hurry back up, only pausing to peek at him a couple times. John waits until he hears a door shut- they’ll be curling up together in Dean’s bed tonight, he suspects- before laughing once more, soft and quiet.

He knows where the stairs creak, so he makes it back up to his and Mary’s bedroom without a sound, and she’s awake when he gets there, sitting up and smiling while he starts to take off the costume. “How’d it go?”

John thinks about the wonder on their faces, and the genuine excitement at waking up tomorrow. He doesn’t hide the smile on his face, and as soon as he’s kicked off his boots and wrestled the pillow out from under his shirt, he goes to Mary and leans in to kiss her, soft and chaste.

“It went perfect,” he says softly. “We did good, Mrs. Claus.”

Mary laughs, and John crawls into bed, and when they wake up early the next morning to a pair of excited boys climbing into their bed and announcing that it’s Christmas, he knows that it was more than worth it.

The milk and cookies he got to eat weren’t bad, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	24. Three-Hundred Sixty: Singing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Merry Christmas, freak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when Sam and Dean spent Christmas in prison?

“Merry Christmas, freak.”

Dean stopped talking to the guards back when he figured out it was a waste of energy, and when it became clear that they wouldn’t give him any information about his brother. It doesn’t stop them from talking to him, though, usually in the form of insults or vicious jeers, and December 25th is no different.

It’s only been a couple weeks in this hellhole, but that’s a couple weeks without knowing whether Sam is dead or alive and Dean’s not sure how he’s made it this long without losing his fucking mind. It’s maddening to be confined to such a small space, one whose every detail has been forever etched into his brain by now, but it’s worse than that, too. It’s the silence, the isolation, the uncertainty-

It’s the fact that his mom’s alive and it’s Christmas and he might never even see her again.

It’s not like he hasn’t been thinking about it. It’s not like every single childhood fantasy hasn’t been dancing around in his head since before she threw him on the ground and put her foot on his neck. Every holiday, every milestone, everything she’d ever missed- everything they could never do as a family- suddenly they had their second chance, and just as quickly, it’d been ripped away from them. It’s a wide-open wound that makes it hard to breathe and Dean- Dean doesn’t know what to do about it.

So it’s Christmas, now, and he’s alone. He’s got one of his regulatory two meals per day, and it’s just as miserable as all the other ones, and his brother’s somewhere far away, and everyone else he loves, everyone else who matters, doesn’t even know he’s here.

Merry fucking Christmas, indeed.

But it’s- it’s not going to be all bad. They haven’t broken him yet and Dean refuses to buckle now, no matter how bad every single voice in his head wants him to curl up and quit. Sam’s out there somewhere, and Cas is gonna find them sooner or later, and Mom- Mom’s going to want to do something special for Christmas, too. They’re gonna bust out of this place and have their own little holiday, even if it’s a few days or a few weeks or a few months late.

More importantly for the here-and-now, Sam is somewhere in this place. Sam’s here, and Sam’s feeling just as miserable as he is, if not worse, and Dean isn’t going to allow that to continue.

The guards don’t like it when he’s noisy, but fuck if he cares what they think anymore. All he can hope is that some of them make it to Sam, and that some of them are partial to humming.

Maybe he can’t get to Mom in here, but at least he can try to do something for his little brother.

Dean hums, first, trying to get his vocal cords working again after so much silence. The tune comes to him gradually, cobwebbed bits of his memory coming back to life just for this moment, and he settles against the concrete wall, head tipped back and eyes drifting towards the ceiling.

If he squints, the little starbursts of light almost look like snow.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas.” He’s a little rusty, and Sinatra might not be his favourite, but the words are easy ad Sam likes this one and it don’t sound too awful in his soft, raspy voice, gaining volume and confidence as he goes on. “Let your heart be light… from now on, our troubles will be out of sight…”

It takes about twenty seconds for one of the guards to bang on the outside of his door and demand that he shut up, but Dean doesn’t listen. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the half-remembered song, loud and clear by the time he gets to the next verse, and absolutely uncaring about whatever consequences he may face as a result. He sings, and he hums, and he repeats the damn song until they leave him alone. It’s almost kind of comforting, like if he closes his eyes and pretends hard enough, he’s twenty-eight again and he’s going to Hell in half a year, but he’s drinking eggnog and watching the game with his little brother and everything seems almost okay.

The guards leave him alone eventually, and Dean falls quiet after singing the song for the fifth time in a row. They don’t give him his dinner, but next time someone comes by, they’re humming something that sounds suspiciously like “Jingle Bell Rock,” and Dean doesn’t hide his smile.

However vehemently Dean may deny it, Sam knows better than anyone in the world that it’s his very favourite Christmas song.

_360/365_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	25. Three-Hundred Sixty-One: Skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s strange, staying in one place for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skating and stuff.

It’s strange, staying in one place for so long. Especially a place where the neighbours smile and wave and invite them over when the first move in; it unsettles Dean at first, and he can tell that his dad feels the same way, but after a month of living in a cozy little rental in Michigan, it’s hard not to get comfortable.

The neighbourhood kids are Sam’s age, and even in the dead of winter, it seems that they’re eager to befriend him. They show up at the door right after breakfast, all clamouring over each other to invite him out to play, and it’s only by the time Sam’s all bundled up for the cold and Dean’s decided to tag along that they figure out they’re going skating.

“I don’t have skates,” Sam tells them, all sad and embarrassed like he usually is when these things come up. It turns out someone’s brother has an old pair he’s not using, though, and before very long, Dean finds himself huddled up by the edge of an impromptu outdoor skating rink. He doesn’t have gloves and he can’t feel the tip of his nose, but he’s watching his little brother intently and can’t quite hide his little smile.

Sam hasn’t quite hit his growth spurt yet, and he’s one of the smallest kids out there, but the others are real careful with him. No one tries to shove him or knock him over- maybe just ‘cause Dean’s watching- and he’s even got a couple friends who help him get the hang of it. Sam’s a bit like a baby giraffe on the skates, but he gains confidence as he goes and it doesn’t take long before he’s gliding around on his own, looking like the happiest kid in the whole entire world.

Dean hunkers down and pulls his hat a little lower over his ears, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. It’s worth freezing his toes off for the chance to see Sam having so much fun, he thinks.

It’s especially worth it once one of the neighbourhood moms comes by with hot chocolate to go around, and Dean ends up with Sam mostly in his lap and a warm drink to share.

“Did you see me?” Sam asks him with big eyes, rosy-cheeked with the cold. “I was doing it!”

Dean just grins and hugs him a little tighter, maybe trying to steal some body heat but mostly just ‘cause Sam’s cute. “You were. And you were the best ever.”

Sam beams at him and wiggles around- must be hard; he’s still got his borrowed skates on- until he can hug Dean back, the both of them huddled up in a snowbank-turned-seating area. “Was not!”

“You were.” Dean huffs out a little white cloud and taps Sam on the nose. “'Cause I said so.”

That’s as far as that argument goes, interrupted by Dean nudging the hot chocolate back into Sam’s hands and the both of them settling down to watch for a while.

It’s nice to feel like they’re a part of something for once. There’s no telling how long it’ll be until they have this again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	26. Three-Hundred Sixty-Two: Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam doesn’t even know if his brother can hear him like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love suffering.

Sam doesn’t even know if his brother can hear him like this.

He knows what the doctors have said. He knows how slim Dean’s chances are of waking up, let alone surviving, but- but they seem damn determined to make him believe that Dean’s still in there somewhere, listening. Seems they think he’s got nothing better to do than eavesdrop on everyone passing through the dreary little hospital room, like he’s not busy fighting for his life as they all drift by and watch.

Sam figures if any bit of his brother is still clinging to this world, then it’s busy trying to claw its way back to consciousness, injuries be damned. Dean wouldn’t make it easy.

That being said, though, there’s something kind of quietly comforting about the thought that Dean can hear him.

It’s later than it should be, because visiting hours are long over and even the nurses working the graveyard shift are distant; quiet and removed in the darkest part of the night. Sam’s awake, though. Maybe because this is the best time for being alone with Dean, but maybe just because he can’t sleep knowing his brother is hurt.

Either way, it’s quiet and dark- dark where the harsh, artificial hospital lights don’t cast sharp shadows down hallways and into corners- and they’re alone. There’s Sam in his chair and Dean in his bed and there’s just the sound of breathing, mostly; breathing and the mechanical beep-beep-beep that makes sure Dean is still alive.

Sam doesn’t like the beeping very much, more for its necessity than for what it signifies.

“You always told me to be brave,” he says to a ceiling tile. He can barely see it; the lights are off in Dean’s room except for the ones cast by the machines around the bed. “No matter what. Monsters or- or soccer games. Or running away to school. Like that would make stuff easier, I guess. Maybe that’s what you were going for, huh?”

Dean, predictably, stays quiet. Sam continues to talk to the dark space above him, because even when he’s the only conscious person in this room, it’s easier than facing Dean.

“And you always thought I was, like- like you weren’t the one being brace all the damn time. Even when it was just a more heroic way of doing something stupid.” And he can’t help but laugh at himself for that, because- Christ; if he had a dollar for every time Dean’s gotten himself hurt pulling that kind of shit-

Well, he’d trade those dollars away if it meant Dean stopped making stupid decisions and winding up in the hospital. That’d be great.

“And you just- you’ve got no idea.” Sam’s whispering now and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop himself from looking at Dean. Dean who’s pale and looks so, so small in the hospital bed, surrounded by white. Breathing through a tube with too many machines attached to him to count. “Not the first fucking clue about what a coward I am. Do you?”

There are only a handful of inches separating his chair from Dean’s bed, but they’re still too many as he scoots close, reaching up with shaking hands to take Dean’s between them, clutching cool fingers like if he wills it hard enough, they’ll squeeze back.

Sam doesn’t think much about it when he leans forward, closing his eyes when he presses his lips to Dean’s knuckles.

“I’m scared, Dean,” he whispers against soft, familiar skin, and he’s trembling as the words escape, physically unloading their weight from his shoulders. “I’m so fucking scared of losing you, and you don’t- you don’t know how much I…”

 _Need_  doesn’t seem like a strong enough word, so Sam falls quiet, still gripping Dean’s hand and feeling the faint pulse under his lips when he moves them to his brother’s wrist, desperate for the tiny sign of life.

“You’d better wake up,” he whispers. “You’d better, Dean, or I don’t know what- what I’ll…”

He doesn’t know what to say after that, and the silence is once again filled by the regular beeping of the machines around them.

Dean stays quiet, and Sam doesn’t move. It’s going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	27. Three-Hundred Sixty-Three: Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a twisted kind of poetry in the way that this Tuesday loops, Sam thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mystery Spot.

There’s a twisted kind of poetry in the way that this Tuesday loops, Sam thinks. Something almost kind of beautiful in its mechanisms; in the unspoken rules that shape this little pocket of Hell. His brother dies, and the day ends, regardless of where or how or when, and Sam wakes up in that very same morning, living that very same Tuesday, hearing that very same song.

Dean’s heartbeat is the thing moving them forward, and every time it stops, so does the entire rest of the world.

Sam hasn’t lost his brother before all this. Not for real, anyways. Not for good. Not counting the nightmares he’s had on and off ever since learning about monsters to begin with. He’s seen Dean bruised and battered and clinging to life by the tips of his fingers, and he’s seen Dean cheat death more than once, and every single time, his belief in his invincible big brother has been further reinforced.

Except now he’s been shafted to a mere bystander as Dean dies, over and over and over again, only for the entire world to stop as soon as it happens.

It’s kind of poetic because Sam gets to imagining that the whole world is just as ruined by losing Dean as he is, and all it can think to do is reset this day until he makes it through. It’s poetic because there isn’t a life outside of Dean, Sam thinks, and it’s oddly fitting that he never sees a single moment past Dean’s final breath.

He doesn’t know how long he’s going to be here, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to escape. All he’s got to work with is his own knowledge and whatever he can find in this tiny town, and as the days tick by and Dean’s life ends over and over again before his eyes, Sam’s resolve starts to seep into despair, and he thinks that maybe all that’s left for him to do is enjoy the moments they’ve got.

If he can close his eyes and wake up every time that Dean dies, then maybe it’s not real to begin with. It’s the easy answer, and one to which Sam clings with everything he’s got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	28. Three-Hundred Sixty-Four: Heartbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s hard, sometimes. Feeling Dean’s heartbeat and getting a taste of everything he doesn’t have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark!Sam. Just because.

It’s hard, sometimes. Feeling Dean’s heartbeat and getting a taste of everything he doesn’t have.

Mostly, Sam dreams. Lets his mind wander and fantasizes about the space he’d carve out for himself, if he could spread his brother’s rib cage wide like a pair of wings and fit himself inside; there’s always been something a little bit hollow hiding inside Dean and Sam would fix it. He’d fix it the way nobody else ever could.

The closest he ever gets, though, are the nights when Dean lets Sam crawl into his bed and rest his head on his chest, listening to the quick thump-thump-thump that reads like a story about how Dean is somehow, against every odd, still alive. Sam’s heard stories about death and about fear and about pain, all told in the vital rhythm that presses insistent against his fingertips when he touches Dean’s throat, but it’s the quiet ones that are his favourite.

They’d be even louder and even better and even more real if he could crawl right inside, but Sam keeps those dreams quiet. He doesn’t like it when Dean is scared of him. Dean doesn’t let him close when he’s scared; shuts people out and pushes Sam away and keeps the warm thump-thump hidden to himself, and Sam- Sam starves without it, deprived and empty after a lifetime of pacing himself to that beat.

He’s gotten very good at making sure Dean is  _never_  scared of him, no matter how much it means he needs to restrain himself. Dean is worth being quiet, and shivering in the outside air instead of burrowing himself deep inside is okay, so long as Dean’s arms are there to keep him warm.

Dean makes a lot of things worth the little lies, even if Sam will always want more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	29. Three-Hundred Sixty-Five: Sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t look at me like that,” Dean huffs, squinting up at Sam’s amused grin as he settles down. “There’s only one bed. I’ve got no other choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bed-sharing. Terrible. The worst.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean huffs, squinting up at Sam’s amused grin as he settles down. “There’s only one bed. I’ve got no other choice.”

Sam doesn’t stop smiling, and after a brief staring contest, Dean gives up and buries his face in the pillow, pretending like he’s not already pressed up against his brother. They’ll be a tangled mess before they even fall asleep. “No other choice.”

“There’s a couch, Dean,” Sam tells him, and he sounds like he’s on the verge of laughter, and Dean kind of wants to smack him. “You could sleep there if this is too offensive for you.”

For a moment, Dean seriously considers that, just to prove a point. Show Sam where all his smart-ass commentary gets him. But the couch is lumpy, and his brother is warm, and moving from where he’s burrowed himself is kind of the last thing Dean wants to do, so he just opts to ignore the suggestion altogether.

Predictably, Sam snickers as he pulls Dean closer, and as expected, they’re all curled up together within a few seconds.

“You’re an asshole,” Dean mutters, even as he turns and muffled the words against Sam’s chest. “Why don’t you sleep on the couch?”

“Because the couch is too small for me.” Sam sounds entirely too patient, like he’s humouring a child, and Dean pokes him in the ribs for it. “And how am I s'posed to sleep without you to cuddle me?”

“M'not here for cuddling.” Dean’s definitely not that soft. Absolutely not. He’s not some teddy bear for his brother to hug while he falls asleep, except- except that’s exactly what’s happening, apparently, as Sam pulls him even closer and noses through his hair. “You even listening?”

“Sure.” He can feel Sam smiling, and it’s impossible to miss the sleepy kiss pressed to the top of his head. “Night, Dean.”

Dean sighs dramatically for the sake of making a fuss, but Sam’s entirely too comfortable to be fair and it would take a much stronger man than Dean to pull away from this kind of position.

It’s not cuddling. It’s just- they’re both big guys, and there’s only so much room in a king-sized bed.

Besides, Sam’s got a hell of a grip. He couldn’t extract himself even if he wanted to. Obviously, the only solution is to stay right where he is and endure. Takes a lot of willpower to manage that. Lots and lots of willpower. It takes even more to resist doing something stupid like burying his face in Sam’s neck and letting his brother’s heartbeat lull him to sleep, but-

Well, Dean’s only got so much willpower to spare. He’s only human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	30. Three-Hundred Sixty-Six: New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam’s eyelids are drooping by eleven thirty, and at a quarter to midnight, Dean’s pretty sure that he’s fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny brothers.

Sam’s eyelids are drooping by eleven thirty, and at a quarter to midnight, Dean’s pretty sure that he’s fallen asleep.

He’s just little; eight years old and probably not quite old enough to be staying up late to watch the New Year’s Eve festivities, but he’s got big, round puppy eyes that make it hard to say no when he wants something, and today- today, Sammy wants to stay up and watch the ball drop on TV.

They’re curled up in bed together, Sam tucked safe and warm into Dean’s side. He’s still tiny enough to fit right under Dean’s arm, even though it seems like he’s getting bigger every single day, and Dean loves it. Secretly, he hopes that Sam stays small forever, ‘cause it’ll mean that they can always do this, no matter how old they get. Dad’s already asleep across the room, and with the circles under his eyes, Dean can’t blame him, but he’d smiled all soft and given them both a kiss on the forehead and promised they’d go somewhere nice for breakfast to celebrate together before crawling into bed.

So Sam’s dozed off, ‘cause he’s little and he’s tired and midnight is really late to have to keep your eyes open. Even Dean’s starting to feel his exhaustion tugging at him, but he’s not gonna let them miss this. They’re lucky enough to get just the right channel on their little motel TV to be able to watch the celebration up in New York, and it’s bigger than anything he can ever imagine seeing in real life. Giant buildings, thousands of pretty lights, and more people than he even really knew existed. It’s almost a little overwhelming, even contained in that tiny little screen, but he can’t make himself look away, all the same.

At eleven fifty-nine, Dean turns to his little brother and gently noses through his hair.

“Sammy?” Dean mumbles, wondering just how deeply asleep he is. “S'time for the ball.”

Sam starts to stir after a moment, snuffling quietly and burrowing a little deeper into Dean’s side. Dean can feel his cute little nose smushed right up in the spot under his arm and smiles, pressing a tiny kiss to the top of his brother’s head.

“Time for the ball,” he repeats softly. From the dim, blue light of the TV, he can hear the hosts starting to gear up for the countdown. “You don’t wanna miss it, Sammy.”

That seems to get his attention a little more, and he moves again, mumbling something incoherent before he slowly emerges from his cozy little cocoon. Dean smiles when a pair of hazel eyes open up with a couple sleepy blinks. “Hey, kiddo.”

_“Alright, time to count in the new year! Ten!”_

Sam sniffs again and snuggles back into Dean, nuzzling against him. “Tired,” he sighs, and Dean just gathers him closer, one eye on the TV. “Sleep?”

_“Six!”_

Dean just smiles at that and nods, pulling the covers up a little closer to make sure Sam’s good and warm. “Sleep,” he agrees softly. “S'okay.”

He gets another tiny sigh in response, and Sam relaxes again, eyes closed once more. The people on TV finish their countdown a moment later, and Dean glances up in time to see the light-show of the ball dropping while people in a big city he’ll never see laugh and cheer and dance.

_"Happy New Year!”_

Dean turns to his baby brother, soft and asleep in his arms once more, and he gives Sam a small, careful kiss on the forehead.

“Happy New Year, Sammy,” he whispers. “Happy New Year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


End file.
